Serendipity
by Moriarty's Diary
Summary: Jim and Sherlock, the well-known criminal duo, are sadists. They kidnap those who threaten their personal lives and torture them. When one of their captured was nearly beaten to the point of death, Sherlock suggests that they hire a doctor to look after their prisoners. Without Jim's knowledge, Sherlock purposely harms himself to see Dr. Watson. But Jim isn't that oblivious.
1. Torture

**Jim/Sherlock to Sherlock/John  
The transition will occur. I've got a plan.  
Rated M: Sex, language, abuse(?), self-harm and other mature content. Lol but you knew that.**

****If you despise Jim/Sherlock (Sheriarty/Jimlock) please do not read...** **

* * *

Chapter 1

"Pass me the whip." Jim ordered, his right hand outstretch and his fingers twitching with anxiousness. Sherlock obliged, grabbing the leather whip with metal tips. He placed it in Jim's hand. Jim curled his fingers around the leather, ripping it from Sherlock's grasp.

"Do you think you can get away with something like this?" Jim taunted the man kneeling in front of him.

Jim and Sherlock had kidnapped a spy sent out to gather information on their whereabouts. When Sherlock found out who this spy was working for, he was not happy. When he told Jim about the spy, Jim was livid and lashed out immediately. They brought the spy into their underground dungeon, where most of their captives were being held. Daily, Jim would come down to punish them all for even thinking to do such a thing. Sherlock always stood by, watching. He didn't dare touch any of them.

Sherlock wasn't particularly content with how things were going. He didn't agree with the way Jim decided to deal with his anger, but he wouldn't let him know that. If it made Jim happy to do this, then he would gladly allow him to continue despite the predicament's inhumane actions. He stopped caring a long time ago.

Jim prepared the whip, holding it up before bringing it down with an audible _whooshing _sound. The metal tips scathed across the whimpering man's back. The pain was so excruciating that he cried out a strangled scream. Blood oozed from the cuts and gashes that decorated his back, creating ever-growing pools.

"P-please..." The pained man begged in a thick, undistinguished accent.

Jim coiled back, marvelling at his work. The man was now lying in his pool of blood, barely moving.

"Begging doesn't work on me, dear." Jim shrugged with a smirk.

Sherlock frowned, a familiar feeling of guilt surging through him. He always felt guilt for allowing Jim to do this, but never once had he stopped him. "Jim?" Sherlock cooed, his voice quiet and soft.

Jim turned around, his whole demeanour changing at the sound of Sherlock's voice caressing his name. "What's wrong, love?"

Sherlock blinked, glancing at the beaten body. Their captive is losing too much blood and is at risk of dying. Sherlock wouldn't stand for another death to occur. He had to convince Jim to slow down.

"Let's go upstairs, I'm getting bored."

Jim's lips curved into a devious smile. He knew exactly what Sherlock wanted.

"Of course."

* * *

Sherlock pushed Jim down onto their massive bed. Pillows varying in sizes and shapes contoured around them, the cotton sheets were messy and shoved to the sides. The room was dimly lit, accenting the maroon colours that seemed to be everywhere. It was night fall, the moon shone through the white laced curtains.

Sherlock roughly kissed Jim, bringing his hands up to cradle his lover's face. His right hand tangled itself in his short hair, gripping it tightly. Jim groaned in both pleasure and pain. He loved it when Sherlock was bored, it meant he was in the mood for something harsh and exciting.

Jim's hand dragged the length of Sherlock's stomach, stopping as he felt the cold buttons that made his jeans. Fumbling to unbutton them, Sherlock grabbed his hand and pushed it aside.

"Not yet." He breathed against Jim's neck. Although he was utterly impatient to get on with it, he wanted to take his time. Sherlock liked teasing Jim in his own way.

Jim moaned as his partner nipped and sucked his way down the length of his neck then back up. He stopped at Jim's ear, taking his earlobe between his teeth and gently tugging it. Jim squirmed, his hands placed firmly against Sherlock's chest. The heat between them was nearly unbearable. At this point, Jim was panting vigorously. Never in his life has a person made him feel this aroused so quickly by doing so little.

"Please, Sherlock." Jim pleaded, his voice drowned by his heavy breathing.

Sherlock smirked and chuckled darkly. "Begging doesn't work on me, dear."

And Jim whimpered, remembering that he said the exact same words he used earlier. Jim knew exactly what he was doing: torturing.

Without even knowing it, Jim realized he was shirtless. He looked at Sherlock and found him sitting atop of him, holding his white t-shirt in his hands. Sherlock had a sly smile on his face, impressed and pleased that he managed to distract Jim so well to take off his shirt.

With great force, Jim pushed himself up and grabbed Sherlock's head, roughly kissing his lips. His hands tangled themselves in Sherlock's hair and tugged on it much more harshly than Sherlock liked. Sherlock collapsed on the bed, a muffled wail escaping his lips. Jim took that moment to his advantage and pinned his love down with his body.

"Your turn." He grinned, managing to switch from his submissive role. Getting what he wanted, Sherlock obliged and helped him take off his jeans. Jim tossed them to the ground along with his underwear. "Wow, love. Hard for me already?" He remarked.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he laughed out of sheepishness. Jim allowed silence to follow as he brought himself down to Sherlock's cock. Without hesitation, Jim took him in his mouth.

"Oh, god." Sherlock breathed, his hand instinctively bringing itself to the back of Jim's head.

He started of slowly, as if to taunt Sherlock. Sherlock pushed himself further into his partner's mouth, making him involuntarily gag. But Jim didn't mind, he continued on.

Jim brought his hand to cover the base of Sherlock's still exposed cock and began pumping while he sucked the head. Sherlock pushed himself up, propping himself on his one free elbow while his other arm continued to follow the rhythm of Jim's head. His stomach begun to clench and he knew he was close. He didn't warn Jim because somehow he always knew.

"I'm-I'm c-c..." Unable to finish his sentence, Jim already knew what he was going to say. Within the last three seconds before Sherlock climaxed, he completely inserted Sherlock's dick into his mouth until there was nothing left to see.

This pushed Sherlock over the edge.

Streams of cum came spewing out and into Jim's mouth. It was a fantasy that only Sherlock allowed himself to experience. He fell against the mattress, breathing so heavily.

Slowly, Jim released Sherlock from his mouth and kept his lips tightly squeezed Sherlock kept his eyes opened and locked on Jim, watching the muscles in Jim's throat move as he swallowed the load.

Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach, panting into the pillows. He closed his eyes, feeling unconsciousness greeting him until someone - Jim - pulled his hair. Jim hovered over Sherlock, bringing his lips close to his ear.

"Don't fall asleep yet, love." Jim whispered. "It's my turn."


	2. Invasion

Chapter 2

"He's lying." Sherlock concluded, sitting on a chair. He was facing their newest prisoner, whom was chained up to the stone wall. His head hung low, blood oozing from his neck, arms, and thighs. He was barely breathing in result to his windpipe being strangled by his captor.

Jim glared back at their captive. The katana in his hand, still dripping with blood, was raised to his chest. The sword threatened to pierce the sensitive skin.

"Tell me the truth." Jim spat through his teeth, inches away from the prisoner's face. The prisoner was inaudible, mumbling unintelligibly. The caused Jim to press the sword enough to create a small cut. The prisoner screamed, his voice ringing in the ears of anyone nearby. Blood began to drip from the little gash. The prisoner had lost so much blood that he was nearing unconsciousness. "If you can scream that loud, _speak _that loud!" Jim growled.

But the prisoner's body fell loose, the only things keeping him up were his chained hands. His body sagged, the chains cutting against his skin. Jim sighed in anger and frustration. He threw the katana across the room and it landed with a loud _clang_. Jim brought his hands to his face, wanting to scratch it off. He brought his hands up to his hair and curled his fingers, pulling at it.

"When will they stop?!" He shouted in frustration. Sherlock stood up, cautiously walking over to his furious lover and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closely to his chest.

"Not until they find us." Sherlock murmured. Jim instantly relaxed.

"They give up so easily, don't they? The captives?" Jim snorted, looking over his shoulder at the beaten man.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to disagree with the whole system.

"Perhaps we should hire a nurse or a doctor of a sort." Sherlock suggested carefully.

Jim looked up into the glasz eyes that peered down at him. "What for?"

"To look after all these people." Sherlock explained. "We can't keep killing them off."

"Why not?"

"Because we don't have enough information. We can't keep killing off the only source of information we got."

"We have Sebastian, Sherlock." Jim pointed out, pushing out of Sherlock hold. He folded his arms suspiciously, slightly disappointed in Sherlock's caring humanity; sentiment.

"You're getting soft-hearted." Jim retorted with disgust, walking over to the corner of the room to pick up his katana.

Sherlock bit his lip. "How well is Sebastian doing since he was shot?"

"Damn assassins." Jim muttered under his breath. "Okay, I see your point. I'll see what I can do."

Sherlock sighed in relief. Jim smiled, making his way back to Sherlock whom kissed his forehead before exiting the dungeon. Once Sherlock left, Jim turned around facing the opposing wall of the beaten man.

The opposing wall had a row of assassins they kidnapped, all injected with a drowsy chemical. The chemical was beginning to wear out and a few already noticed where they were and what was happening.

"Who's next?" Jim smirked.

* * *

Sherlock sat on his chair, staring outside a window.

The view was marvellous. They were completely isolated in a prairie, overlooking a valley. When the sun rose at the beginning of dawn, the light would illuminate the field, creating shadows when it hit the uneven curves of the ground. Laced patterns of pink, orange, and yellow iridescently painted the sky while little patches of white clouds added a little brightness.

Sherlock looked away, closing his eyes as he entered the comfort of his mind palace. Jim rarely ever interrupted Sherlock when he was in deep thought and rarely, he'd make an appearance. One of those rare moments were happening.

Sherlock, standing in the middle of his mind palace, stared at the apparition of Jim. Jim looked emotionless, blank, and unstable. His beady black eyes were an empty voice of hatred and lust. This wasn't the first time Sherlock has seen Jim like that.

* * *

~Mind Palace~

"Get out of my head." Sherlock demanded, his voice echoed with authority.

Jim just stood still in place. He was wearing all black: his t-shirt, his pants, and his shoes. His hair was messy, dishevelled. He looked like a true serial killer. If he had a gun in his hand and an army of his own, he would be deadly. Sherlock saw that plainly in his eyes. He always knew what Jim was like underneath the layer he only allowed Sherlock to see.

"Get out!" Sherlock yelled. His voice boomed loudly, affecting his throat. "Get out of here! I don't want to see you!"

Jim's right arm bent behind his back and slowly came back into view. Except this time, a pistol was in his hand. He raised his arm, the gun pointed directly at Sherlock's face. His finger placed itself on the trigger, his thumb pulling on the hammer before aiming between my eyes.

"You're a monster. A cold-blooded murderer." Sherlock said shakily. "You feel nothing. You never have. You're not human."

What happened next surprised Sherlock. Jim laughed. He laughed coldly, hatred now overpowering the lust in his eyes. He didn't look amused.

"Do it." Sherlock taunted, raising his voice. "_Do it_! Kill me!"

Without wasting so much as a heartbeat, Jim pulled the trigger. The shot rang through Sherlock's ears as he collapsed onto the floor. For the last second of his life, he saw Jim lower the gun and walk away, leaving him to die in his own mind.

This happened often.

* * *

"Sherlock?" A sickly sweet voice called out. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, breathing out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He was met by the worried gaze of his partner, whom reached out to touch his shoulder. Sherlock jerked away, getting up quickly and brushing past Jim. He stopped in front of the window, concentrating at the sun's light. It fiercely shone, and Sherlock's eyes didn't steer away from it. He needed something to keep him distracted.

"It happened again, didn't it?" Jim whispered, his voice small like an innocent child trying to apologize for wrong doings. Sherlock didn't respond. He heard Jim sigh and slowly approach him. He could feel his presence, the feel of his arms snaking around his waist as he forced himself not to cringe at the touch. "You know it isn't real, right?" Sherlock didn't say anything. "Sherlock? Come on, talk to me." Still, Sherlock stayed quiet, unmoving. As the seconds ticked by, he felt the absence of Jim's arms around him and turned around to realize that Jim left him alone. He sighed.

It wasn't the same anymore. At least, not for him. The euphoria he once felt with Jim was gone. He was no longer happy, but tired, annoyed, and lonely. Yes, although Jim was his partner, it only benefited him sexually. Sherlock may describe himself as a sociopath, but he isn't as phlegmatic and oblivious as he leads on.

If Jim ever found out how he truly felt, he wouldn't be able to live. Not because he will lose one of the few people that cared for him, but because Jim simply wouldn't allow it.

Not without a fight.


	3. Trust

Chapter 3

"No, Sebastian, you know who I'm talking about. Get him. Now!" Jim shouted into the cell phone. He was ordering Sebastian Moran to offer one of his old friends from the army for a position in their little organization they have going.

Jim Moriarty wanted a reliable doctor to count on, especially due to their need of secrecy. Jim knew he couldn't put ads in the newspapers or online, so he came to the conclusion that he needed to be more resourceful. Being well-informed that Sebastian was a veteran, he took this to his advantage. Who better to ask for such a position, than an old friend of Seb? Especially one with a deep, dirty secret to hide.

Jim threw his cell phone at the wall, angry and frustrated. If it weren't for Sherlock, he wouldn't have to be hiring someone to look after their prisoners. In Jim's mind, they're all better off dead. If they can't handle a mission to kill him, then they are of no use. They all seemed weak, unintelligent, and unskilled. It was pitiful, having to let them die in a dirty, rotten dungeon. But that was the price they had to pay for going up against someone like Jim.

There was a time where these spies were sent to kidnap or hurt Sherlock, just to antagonize Jim. The last time that happened, Jim decapitated their heads off and sent them back to an enclosed address. After that incident, the spies were specifically instructed not to touch Sherlock. Whoever was sending these spies knew Jim was kidding around, that he would kill a whole city just for his one true love if it meant to keep him safe. Though Jim knew what he was up against, he just couldn't figure out one important question: who?

Everyone wanted Sherlock, specifically his intelligence and incredible deducing skills. Being as selfish as he is, Jim had to hide him. He couldn't let anyone near what belonged to him. That's exactly what he did. He kept Sherlock hidden from the world and made sure no one would find him.

Almost no one.

Jim sighed, resting his elbows on his desk. He stared at the shattered pieces of his cell phone. Sebastian was unable to find the army doctor he lost touch with. He believed that he was living somewhere on the outskirts of London, living in a small apartment. Other than that, Sebastian didn't have anymore information.

"James?" Sherlock queried. He stood at the threshold of Jim's office. It didn't matter how many times Jim reminded him to call him 'Jim' rather than his legal birth name 'James', Sherlock would never remember to say it. Sherlock looked down at the shards of glass and broken pieces of plastic that lay at the foot of the North wall. "What happened?" Sherlock really didn't need the story, but he knew he had to be courteous. Jim hated it when Sherlock was unemotional.

"Incompetence." He sighed again, shaking his head. "I've got things to do, Sherlock." He uttered, getting up. "Go away, you're such a distraction."

Sherlock smirked, stepping into the room. "Thank you." He inched closer towards Jim.

"I didn't mean it as a compliment." Jim frowned.

"Yes you did." Sherlock smiled widely.

Jim, unable to keep his poker face, broke into a smile. "Yeah, okay I did."

He walked up to Sherlock and stared into his eyes with an expression that only illustrated as wonder, awe, and curiosity. "Are you as bored as I am?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course."

"Well," Jim began, drawing out the word. "how about you and I-"

"Jim." Sherlock interrupted him. "You're thinking sadistic thoughts."

"I must. It's in my job description." He joked, though Sherlock concluded that his sadistic state of mind was a personality trait, rather than a necessity to the criminal network.

"You're very talented in that area." Sherlock commented, the truth in his own words were astonishingly accurate.

"Not as much as you. You can practically read minds." Jim's smile grew even wider, showing his teeth. "I love how you can read my mind...you always know what I want."

They shared a quiet moment with each other, nothing but the sound of their guards making their rounds in and around the mansion. Jim wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, drawing the taller man closer to him until their bodies touched. He pressed his head against Sherlock's chest, listening to the subtle rhythm of his heartbeat.

"Any word on the army doctor yet?" Sherlock queried abruptly, for the sake of conversation. "Is Sebastian able to find him?"

Jim looked up, tearing himself away from the calming beating of his first love's heart. "Sebastian is failing us."

"Sebastian is loyal."

"And slow."

"But he's smart." Sherlock interjected, pushing Jim away. He walked over to Jim's desk and quickly scanned the papers that lay on the table. He read a profile on the army doctor, but there was no picture of the lad. By the brief scan, Sherlock knew this army doctor was impressive. "He will find the doctor. He always does what he's told."

Jim had to agree. There were several times where Sebastian was far away from success, but never once has he ever completely failed them. He always pulled through, even if the alternative decisions were usually unplanned. It was one of the main reasons why Sebastian was their right-hand man. Jim had a lot of faith in him.

Jim's smile faltered. "You have a lot of trust in him." Jim remarked, trying hard not to sound jealous.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, a snarky attitude evident in his expression. "I don't trust anyone, Jim."

"I'm the one exception." Jim sighed, stating it as a fact.

Sherlock smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes. "You're the one exception."


	4. Guilt

Chapter 4

"Good, bring him in." Jim ordered into the microscopic microphone. He released his finger from the microphone button and pressed the buzzer, allowing the front yard gates to unlock.

"He's early." Sherlock remarked, darting his eyes towards the clock.

"Like you said," Jim began, walking towards his office window. "Sebastian always pulls through."

Sherlock walked out of the room and proceeded down the narrow hallway. He stepped into his study and sat down on his chair, closing his eyes. He waited, his ears perking at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. After a few seconds, he heard Sebastian's deep, baritone voice break the silence.

"Mr. Moriarty," He greeted monotonously. "I've brought you Dr. John H. Watson."

Sherlock opened his eyes, his curiosity getting the better of him. He quietly tiptoed to the threshold of his study and creaked open the door. He peered his head through the slightly opened door. Making sure that no one was around to see him leave his room, then he walked steadily towards Jim's office.

Sherlock pushed open the door. "Jim, I-" Sherlock pretended to make his entrance accidental.

"Sherlock!" Jim smiled gleefully. "This is Dr. John H. Watson. He's going to be taking care of our guests."

"He refuses to elaborate the initial." Sebastian interjected, towards Jim. Jim looked utterly indifferent.

He shrugged. "No matter. We only need his expertise. Now, if you follow me, I'll show you where you'll be spending most of your time. Sebastian, follow along. I'll need you as a secondary source of information for Dr. Watson, in case he forgets something."

Sebastian nodded once, quick. "Yes, Mr. Moriarty."

Jim brushed past Sherlock, pecking his lips quickly before parting. Sebastian followed closely behind his boss. John stayed in the room, looking startled and uncertain. He glanced at Sherlock, frowning.

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock greeted, awkwardly.

John gave a quick, forced smile. "John. H. Watson."

John began to walk out of the room, but then turned around and looked back at Sherlock. "What exactly is this place?"

Sherlock didn't break eye-contact. "Our last resort."

John looked down, nodded as if to say he understood, but Sherlock knew he didn't.

"Hamish." Sherlock muttered. Absentmindedly, attempting to give a good impression on John. He could have told the doctor more, but he didn't want to come across as creepy.

John went rigid and glared back at Sherlock. "Excuse me?"

"Your middle name." Sherlock explained. "Hamish, isn't it?"

John stood there, gaping at Sherlock with wonder. "Yes...how did you know that?"

Sherlock nodded towards his shirt. "Your shirt. It's military, correct?"

John nodded, his eyes softening with fascination. "Yes."

"Your tag's showing; your name's written on it." Sherlock said, and with one long look, he walked past John Watson and into his study.

John turned around, watching Sherlock leave. He remained stunned.

* * *

John had followed after Sherlock into their underground dungeon seconds after Sherlock deduced his middle name. Sherlock was a little bit embarrassed about feeling ashamed and guilty that he allowed Jim to keep a torture chamber. He didn't want John to know that they had one. In fact, he didn't want John to be anywhere near this place.

He didn't want anyone else to be dragged into their mess.

But this thought was very hypocritical. Sherlock was the one to suggest hiring a doctor to look after the prisoners. And it baffled him as to why he felt ashamed to be part of Jim's organized cruelty.

Ignoring the uncomfortable knots tied in his stomach, Sherlock pushed opened the heavy metal door that lead to the dungeons. Upon entering the dark room, he heard John audibly gasp.

Jim stood in the middle of the torture chamber, admiring the row of badly beaten prisoners hanging on the wall. All of were hung from chains; metal clasping around their wrists, supported by seven chain links so that they were forced to keep their arms up. Their feet were tied and chained up to anvils that were placed two feet in front of each of them. Most of them had their ankles bent, supporting themselves with their ankle bones because they were too tired to stand upright.

Every prisoner was filthy. Dried blood decorated their stomach, cuts, gashes, and gaping holes were littered all across their torso, arms, and legs. Their hair was soaked with grease and sweat, irritating their skin. They were stripped of their clothing, wearing only their undergarments. Jim made sure that they had little to no dignity left once he was done with them. Some didn't even have under garments on.

Jim hated it when the prisoners started to smell. None of them had a proper shower in weeks, some even months. But that doesn't mean that they weren't hosed off.

Jim brought in the garden hose through the window and sprayed them down with freezing cold water. Some prisoners opened their mouths to drink the water, because they were only allowed one water bottle per day along with one half-meal.

Along with horrendous hygiene, the majority of them were malnourished. Their rib cages were prominent, hip bones protruding and looking as though it would cut right through the skin, hands and feet looking as though someone simply put skin on a skeleton and forgot the muscles.

Jim held his favourite tool - a whip - in his hand and smiled deviously at his hostages.

"Everyone!" Jim chimed. "Pay close attention. I need you all on your best behaviour because I've brought you a guest."

The prisoners reluctantly held their heads up, some groaning at the pain they felt in their neck as well as everywhere else. Their eyes fixed on Dr. John Watson, curious sparking a couple of them. Others fought the urge to faint.

"Here is Dr. Watson. I've hired him to take care of the lot of you. Most of you can barely keep your heads up." Jim remarked with annoyance. "Now, you must treat him nicely otherwise you won't see him again. He's the only one that will voluntarily take care of your wounds."

Some of the prisoners looked grateful, but others hung their head. All of them knew that there was absolutely no point to having a doctor if Jim would come back to punish them again. The optimistic prisoners were thankful, because they'd rather be alive than to be dead. They would take any chance that will allow them to heal and gain strength.

Sherlock looked at John, wondering what was going through his mind. John stared blankly at the prisoners lined up on the wall; his back straight, shoulders square, chin up and his feet exactly six inches apart. John was stood like a soldier. Sherlock concluded that he used this method to hide the utter astonishment he was hiding.

"Dr. Watson, if you can follow me, I'll show you where our supplies are and where you'll be staying." Jim said after a moment of silence.

John nodded once, firmly, before marching out of the room. Sherlock watched as John walked away, then glanced at the prisoners who proceeded to hang their hands and loosely stand against the wall.

His guilt only grew stronger.


	5. Sympathy

Chapter 5

Dr. Watson had been working for Jim for few weeks now.

Sebastian kept guard, making sure that Dr. Watson did nothing to threaten their secure location. Sherlock kept a watchful eye on the army doctor, too. He observed that the poor man was over tired, over worked, and was under a lot of stress. Although Jim was being patient, Sherlock could tell that Jim was ready to punish the spies again.

Sherlock did whatever he could to get Jim to calm down, to relax and think of something else. However, not even Sherlock was enough to distract Jim. Jim was violent when became impatient and angry. He needed a stress reliever. And if he couldn't punish his prisoners, he was going to punish Sherlock.

Sherlock was bigger than Jim. But Jim was quicker, swifter, and slick. He's the King of this operation; of course had skills. He knew all of Sherlock's weak spots. He knew what it took to get Sherlock down on his knees, begging for mercy. Jim had done it before, once, when Sherlock pried a little too much about his background.

"I don't want to hear it, Sherlock!" Jim hissed, his voice cold and unforgiving.

Sherlock flinched, taking a step back. Both of them were standing in Jim's office. It was nearly midnight, most of the guards were resting, one or two of them still roaming around. The technological side of security was at its maximum during the night.

Jim didn't care if anybody heard his tirade, he just wanted to relieve himself of the stress he bottled up. "I don't care if Dr. Watson is tired. I pay him to look after our prisoners. They don't even deserve the treatment they're receiving. I'm only doing this because of _you_!"

Sherlock looked away, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He deduced Jim was in a reckless, infuriated state, and if he said or did the wrong thing, he will surely be put in his place.

"Do you have a little crush on our army doctor, Sherlock? Have you developed a new kink?" Jim asked, a little too sweetly. Sherlock closed his eyes, but that didn't stop the uncomfortable tingle that went down his spine when he felt Jim's body inch closer and closer towards him. "Tell me, Sherly, have you been pondering?"

Sherlock felt Jim's finger slide itself up his chest, fondling with one of his shirt's buttons.

"No, Jim, why would I do that?" Sherlock denied it, and he wasn't lying. Jim stopped being flirtatious and walked away.

"You know how I feel about lies, Sherlock." Jim said, his tone playful but dangerous. Dangerous was an understatement. It was down right terrifying. The subtext in every phrase he speaks when he's angry is enough to make anyone shiver in fear. "But it's a good thing, though..."

Jim's voice sounded distant, and Sherlock opened his eyes. Jim was sitting on his chair, fiddling around with a pen and paper.

"That you didn't lie." Jim finally said, scribbling nonsense on paper. Sherlock relaxed. "But I order you to stay away from him, Sherlock." He demanded, more firmly.

"Of course." Sherlock agreed. Sherlock knew it wasn't wise to question Jim's demands. He always had a reason for it.

"I mean it." Jim pressed, staring straight into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock only nodded.

* * *

Sherlock wandered the mansion for a while, thinking about what Jim said. Why was he being so persistent about staying away from the doctor? Was he feeling jealous? _Probably, _Sherlock thought. Jim was always possessive, always wanting Sherlock for himself. It was also one of the many reasons why they moved to a secluded area.

"Hey, Sherlock?" The army doctor called out from the entrance towards the dungeons.

Sherlock, whom had his back facing John, turned around. "Is something the matter?" Sherlock asked.

John Watson had blood on his hands, wiping it off with a white handkerchief. It wasn't doing anything because most of the blood had already dried on the surface of his skin. His eyes were tired, drained of all emotion. He had dark, purple bruises under his eyes, signifying how much sleep he's been getting since he started living at the mansion.

"I'm in need of assistance. Sebastian isn't really good with suturing." John explained. Sherlock wanted to say no. He wanted to tell the doctor that perhaps it wasn't a good idea, but really, if he needs help with stitching someone up, is it really moral to ignore?

So, Sherlock nodded. "All right. Quickly."

With a grateful, small smile, John Watson went back down the stairs with Sherlock following closely behind. Once they were both in the room, Sherlock took note that Sebastian wasn't even there.

John knelt in front of a prisoner, one who was unconscious. John probably injected him with a sleeping drug. John picked up the needle and thread that hung loosely from the open wound of the prisoner. The unconscious man was losing a lot of blood. Too much.

"Are you good with a needle and thread? I need to give him a blood transfusion and I need you to finish stitching him up before he bleeds out." John stated, holding up the needle expectantly.

Sherlock took it, kneeling down on the blood-stained floor. "I can do it."

"Good, that's good." John sighed with relief, hopping back onto his feet and walking towards a black duffel bag located in a corner of the room. While John retrieved the blood bags and necessary equipment, Sherlock stitched the man up. Although he wasn't a professional and most definitely not a doctor, he knew how to sew someone up. He had to when Sebastian was shot.

John hooked up the equipment, had the IV ready, and once he finished setting everything up, he checked in with Sherlock.

"Done?" He queried, blatantly.

Sherlock nodded, biting off the black thread from the needle. John bent down to look at his work, smiling with satisfaction. "Nice work."

"Is that all you'll be needing?" Sherlock inquired, wondering why he bothered to ask in the first place. He knew that if he stayed any longer, he's risking getting caught by Jim. _It's courteous, _Sherlock tried to convince himself.

"Yes, thanks. The help was appreciated." John said, then yawned.

Sherlock bit his lip, sympathy overwhelming his mind. "You should sleep more often." He blurted.

"If only I had the chance." John sighed tiredly and began to clean up the mess.

Sherlock looked away. Maybe he could talk to Jim about letting John have a day off. The man hasn't had a good night's sleep in weeks; it will probably have horrible effects on his health later on. With a last glance at John's direction, Sherlock left.

He must talk to Jim about John, no matter if it displeases him or not.


	6. Dominance

**Trigger Warning: Spanking (with a belt).  
This is to remind you the power Jim still holds over Sherlock. Sorry I haven't updated in a long time. Motivation is key. Review, please.**

* * *

Chapter 6

Sherlock lay awake in his shared bed, Jim lying next to him. Jim was already asleep, facing Sherlock. His eyes were closed, as they should be. It was peaceful when Jim slept; everything was at ease. No pressure. Jim had an arm draped over Sherlock's bare chest.

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, unable to succumb to unconsciousness. His mind was racing with thoughts. Each one of them revolving around their new employee. Sherlock couldn't pin point exactly why his mind was out of control or why he wasn't able to think about anything other than the doctor. It bothered him.

It bothered Jim more.

Sherlock could hear John tossing and turning in the next room; both bedroom doors were wide open. Privacy wasn't everyone's first priority that night. Sherlock knew why John was restless - surely no one could mentally handle a job like his. To treat injured prisoners and know that they will be punished later isn't moral. In fact, Sherlock knew that John felt as though he was somehow responsible for this. John knew what was happening to the prisoners, but he couldn't do anything about it. He could only fix them up over and over again. Jim would have him killed if he disobeyed. That much was clear.

Sherlock closed his eyes, pretending he couldn't hear John's laboured breathing or his continuous tossing and turning.

Within a few minutes, Sherlock forced shut down. Although his body had completely shut down, his mind was still wide awake.

* * *

Early the next morning, Sherlock was woken up by something warm. A body.

"Are you awake now?" Jim whispered hotly into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock didn't want to answer him. He didn't want to wake up and see Jim's beady eyes first thing in the morning. "Mmm." Sherlock hummed, fighting the urge to groan.

Jim pressed his slim body against Sherlock's side, his hand resting on Sherlock's chest, fingers creating intricate patterns. Jim was bored. Jim's always bored. Especially in the mornings. And that's where Sherlock comes in handy.

"I want to play, Sherly." Jim whined, sounding childish. He swung his leg over, spooning him.

Sherlock felt uneasiness in his core, gnawing at his insides. He felt trapped even though he knew he could easily escape his predicament. Senselessly, Sherlock shoved Jim away, pushing him with great force that Jim nearly fell off the bed.

Jim's eyes widened, feeling shocked. Sherlock's never done that.

"Oh you've done it now." Jim spat through his clenched teeth. His shock subsided, and rage took over. He was angry at Sherlock's hostility.

Jim stood up, walking to his closet. Sherlock laid rigidly on the bed, watching Jim saunter to the closet. Jim walked inside, grabbing something. Sherlock couldn't identify it. That is, until Jim walked back out, a belt in hand. It was in a loop, and Jim smacked his with it repeatedly, mimicking a bully who'd mockingly punch their fist in order to intimidate their target.

"Turn over!" Jim commanded, his voice boomed. Their bedroom door was still opened.

Sherlock obeyed.

Jim crept up to Sherlock's side of the bed, and he smiled devilishly down at his favourite lover. "Take these off." Jim ordered, tapping Sherlock's boxers with the belt.

And Sherlock obeyed.

"Look how lovely you are..." Jim cooed, tracing the curve of Sherlock's arse. "...and you're all mine."

Sherlock cringed, shoving his face into the pillow. He was being violated, but then again, what else is new? Jim's always been like this, so why does it bother him now? He couldn't fight back. Not now. He needed a plan. He must endure this, just one more time for the sake of freedom.

"You can't treat me like that, Sherlock." Jim's voice was on the edge of danger. "For that, you'll be punished. Oh, but you like my punishing you, don't you?"

Sherlock grit his teeth.

"I know you do." Jim brought his arm out, clutching the leather belt tightly in his hand and swung forward, whipping Sherlock's bottom. "A few dozen more, Sherly."

Sherlock bit his lip, his fists grabbing the bed sheets. The pain was almost unbearable to the point where Sherlock prayed he passed out. That's how Jim liked to punish. He liked to punish and then do the after care. It was sick, twisted. But it got Jim off.

"Stop," Whip. "pretending," Whip. "that you," Whip. "don't like it!"

He whipped Sherlock's bottom until it was red, on the verge of bleeding. he stepped back to admire his work, adoring the way Sherlock shuddered. Sherlock was trembling, almost crying. Tears stung his eyes and he felt like vomiting.

"Now look at me, sweetie." Jim said, his voice a little softer. Sherlock lifted his head, a tear escaping his eye. Unexpectedly, Jim whipped the side of Sherlock's cheek, catching him off guard. A large red cut appeared across Sherlock's cheek bone, instantly oozing blood. "I'm sorry." Jim uttered, heartlessly. "But you're not allowed to treat me like that."

Jim threw the belt onto the floor and knelt next to the bed. Sherlock was facing him, doing everything in his power to block out the pain. Jim reached out for Sherlock and stroked his bloody cheek. "Get up now. Go to Dr. Watson to get that cheek stitched up. Then come right back to me. I promise I didn't mean to hit you that hard."

Jim stared longingly at his abused lover whom laid limply on the bed. "I only do what's best for you."

Sherlock only nodded.

"And Sherlock?" Jim said, pushing Sherlock's bangs from his eyes. "I love you. You belong to me."


	7. Stitches

Chapter 7

"Dr. Watson?" Sherlock queried timidly as he entered the dungeon.

It was cold and muggy down there. Most of the prisoners were sleeping, slumping against the wall as the chains continued to hold them up. It looked painful. Going by the state of bruised shoulders, Sherlock deduced that some of them had dislocated shoulders. John Watson noticed Sherlock's staring as he walked passed him, entering the dungeon.

"Can't help them until they're awake." John muttered, heaving a sigh. John glanced at Sherlock, frowning at the blood on his face. "What happened?"

"Nothing." Sherlock bit his lip, shying away. He grabbed the cleansing alcohol, gauze, and the little sewing kit placed on the table. "I'll be needing these..."

"Moriarty did that to you, didn't he?" John asked, crossing his arms.

Sherlock tensed, feeling vulnerable.

"I heard him, Mr Holmes." John claimed, a slight dent appearing between his brows, expressing his concern. "Put down materials."

Sherlock reluctantly tossed them back onto the table, fighting the urge to curl his fingers in frustration. He was totally capable of stitching himself back together. He didn't need the doctor to do it for him.

The doctor stood in front of him, arms crossed as he tapped his foot impatiently. He was with anticipation, hoping Sherlock would explain what happened. But of course, Sherlock remained tight lip. He wouldn't dare rat Jim out. He was too good.

Sherlock's jaw tightened. "Will you help me or not?"

John pressed his lips together, in a tight line. He nodded once, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock as he walked over to the folding table. He took out cleaning alcohol, a cotton pad, and suturing instruments. John gestured to Sherlock to sit on a wooden stool, to which Sherlock obliged. John stood in front of Sherlock, cleaning the wound.

Every so often, Sherlock would gasp and John would continue with his work.

"Deep gash. Wonders as to how you're not bleeding excessively." John mumbled, mostly to himself. Sherlock remained quiet, wincing every so often at the slight sting. John stitched Sherlock, making sure to be extra gentle with his patient. He didn't want Moriarty punishing him for 'hurting' his Sherlock.

Sherlock sat still the entire time, staring at the prisoners whom had begun to wake up. Moans echoed throughout the confined space, the audible pain evident in their strained voices. Sherlock wondered how it would feel like to be chained up like that; the constant aching of muscles, the famine, the dehydration, the light-headedness that followed due to blood loss. He wondered how Jim would treat him if he did something awful enough to be punished for.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the doctor, his eyes observing the man before him. John looked exhausted, no more than usual, but troubled. There was something unsettling with the way John concentrated. Sherlock couldn't figure out why. The doctor's body language screamed 'uncomfortable'. Sherlock couldn't understand why, John was only there to help the injured. He didn't need to sympathize anyone. He didn't have to be concerned about the prisoners, because he already knew that Jim didn't care if they died or not. He only hired the doctor for Sherlock's sanity.

John stepped back, setting the needle and thread down onto the table. He cleaned off the blood that remained and secured the loose thread. A total of twelve stitches were made.

"You're done." John stated monotonously, turning back to the folding table. He grabbed a couple of things - a wash cloth and water - before moving on to the prisoners. John knelt in front a prisoner, tending to the sores on the poor man's foot. Sherlock remained seated on his chair.

"You can go now." John ordered, glancing over his shoulder.

Sherlock stood up almost immediately, feeling the mood shift. "Thank you, Dr. Watson." He thanked curtly, and moved to exit.

"Sherlock," John stopped him, looking up from his kneeling position. Sherlock halted, darting his eyes to the tired man. "be careful, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, exiting the dungeon. It was that exact moment when he identified John Watson's expression.

Worry.

* * *

Sherlock didn't forget to return to Jim. Once he did, Jim welcomed him with open arms. Jim had been waiting for Sherlock for a little over half an hour. He was patient, staring out the window. Jim stood up and embraced his favourite genius, going on his tip toes in order to kiss Sherlock. He was a little dissatisfied when Sherlock didn't return the kiss. He figured that it had something to do with the pain.

"Does it hurt?" Jim queried, his thumb a mere centimetre away from the stitch. Sherlock breathed in sharply. "Did he give you any pain meds? That damn doctor, I swear."

"No it's not his fault." Sherlock was too quick to defend. Sherlock wondered if Jim saw a difference in his behaviour since they hired the doctor. Surely there was a difference, perhaps his constant tensing, rigidity and subtle hostility? Either Jim was being extraordinary understanding, or he was pretending he didn't know.

Jim's jaw visibly clenched as he leaned away, gazing at the face that he ruthlessly scarred. "You mustn't upset me again, Sherlock. You know I cannot control my anger."

_Only a fool would touch the flame. _Sherlock wanted to say. If he said that, another gash would surely be etched into his cheek. It would be another reason to go see Dr Watson again.

"I won't." Sherlock promised. Jim rewarded him with a smile. Sherlock didn't like his smiles, but he accepted them as praise. He did whatever it took to have Jim smile at him because when Jim smiles, it means Sherlock did a good thing.

"Good." He murmured, touching Sherlock's unmarked cheek. "Can't have this pretty little face ruined anymore."


	8. Black Holes

Chapter 8

"You're so pretty, Sherlock..." Jim cooed, his fingers trailing along Sherlock's cheek bone.

Jim and Sherlock laid in bed bare, legs intertwined and hearts racing. Jim tucked himself into Sherlock's side. Sherlock felt uncomfortable. Not in the sense that he disliked his predicament, but he was rather confused, per se. He didn't understand why he was feeling the way he was feeling; betrayal, infidelity, treachery. He had no reason to feel these things. Nothing he'd done had given him a reason to.

But nonetheless, the chemical reaction in his brain still occurred. And he still felt as though his morals were ripped from him.

"You're quiet." Jim muttered, half annoyed and half curious. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing." Sherlock murmured back, blankly staring up at the ceiling.

Jim got out of bed, irritated and mad. "Tell me what's wrong." He demanded, his arms crossed.

"There's nothing wrong, James." Sherlock stated, bored.

Jim grit his teeth, his face flushing. "So it's 'James' now, is it? What, are you angry with me?"

"No." Sherlock blinked, trying to stay as calm and civil as possible. "I already said nothing's wrong."

Jim snorted. "You're not helping yourself, Sherlock. Defying me earlier was one thing, but lying? I will _not_ have you lying to me."

Sherlock remained silent, further angering Jim. There wasn't anything Sherlock could have said that would convince Jim otherwise. Jim was stubborn like that, always believing what he tells himself, despite any other evidence provided.

"Is this how you're going to repay me after I fucked you? With silence?" Jim yelled.

"Please, Jim! Keep it down." Sherlock urged, glancing at the opened door.

Jim's frown relaxed, his arms uncrossing as he stared at the door. "Oh. _Oh. _So is that why you're so distant?"

Sherlock frowned, pushing himself upright into a sitting position. "What?"

Jim had a menacing smile on his face, his eyes dark and dangerous. He darted his eyes back to his lover. Sherlock hated it when Jim did that.

"The doctor? Are you afraid he's going to hear us?" Jim queried. Though the question sounded innocent, it was anything but. It was a challenge, a question that Sherlock had to answer carefully. Jim would surely use Sherlock's words against him. Jim was always the master of manipulation.

"No." Sherlock answered simply, but Jim wasn't satisfied.

"Oh you want him to hear us? Does that get you off, Sherly?" Jim's inquisition started to make Sherlock feel even more uneasy.

"God no, Jim, what the hell!"

"Then what is it?" Jim asked, moving towards. Jim was like the monsters that children feared lurking in the shadows. No one wanted to encounter him. But he was alluring, intriguing, mysterious and it didn't matter who it was, but everyone needed to acquaint him. Unfortunately for Sherlock, Jim wasn't satisfied with remaining acquaintances.

"It's nothing! I told you!" Sherlock strained, the blood rushing his his cheeks. "I'm just tired."

Sherlock could visibly see Jim's jaw clench. The answer didn't satisfy Jim, but there wasn't anything else he could do. He loved Sherlock. He didn't want to hurt him.

Jim's whole demeanour changed from sadism to a fake sort of contentment. He smiled a small smile, walking over to Sherlock's side. He brought a hand down, to caress Sherlock's stitched cheek, and Sherlock remembered not to flinch.

"I really do hate when we fight." He sighed.

* * *

"Mr Holmes?" The doctor queried, his blond haired head peeking through the entrance of Sherlock's office.

Sherlock looked up from his desk, slightly surprised but unexpectedly pleased. He knew that he should tell the doctor to leave before he gets into into trouble, but he found himself inviting the man in. "Dr Watson." He stood up, gesturing the empty seat in front of him. "Please, come in."

John stepped into the office cautiously, eyes wandering everywhere, marvelling the office. He slowly made his way to the empty seat, all the while Sherlock paid close attention to his movements. The doctor had his arms behind his back, one hand clasping over the other. He seemed to be doing well for someone who had been shot in the shoulder; probably needing intense surgery due to that.

"What can I help you with?" Sherlock intervened, snapping John out of his thoughts.

"Oh, yes." John cleared his throat, settling down into the chair in front of Sherlock's desk. Sherlock waited for him to speak. "How's your, uh..." John pointed to his own cheek, referring to the stitches on Sherlock's face. "it's not infected or-"

"No. It's all right." Sherlock assured him, noting how uncomfortable John was.

A long pause followed afterwards, and Sherlock began to feel uncomfortable as well. Both men shifted in their seats, avoiding eye contact. John coughed, closing his eyes for a long moment before opening them again.

"So there was also another reason why I came here." John said finally.

Sherlock nodded. "Which is?"

John bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn't exactly sure how loyal Sherlock was to Jim. What he was about to say could change things very quickly. John drew in a deep breath.

"We need to get out of here." John stated bluntly. Sherlock released a breath he didn't know he was holding. His heart began to pound in his ears, blocking any other sounds in the background.

"We can't." Sherlock blurted. "I can't."

John looked over his shoulder, glancing back at the opened door. He would have closed it when he came in, but that would have made Jim suspicious.

"You have to. You can't stay here." John argued in a low voice, leaning forward in his chair.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, you don't understand. I'm wanted. Dozens of countries want my arrest. They want Jim even more. We're safe here. No one's ever gotten to us."

John frowned. "The amount of prisoners locked up downstairs beg to differ."

Sherlock closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jim and I can't go. We can't leave."

John stared blankly at Sherlock. "I said nothing about Moriarty."

It was Sherlock's turn to frown. He opened his eyes, glaring at John. John's facial expression relaxed; Sherlock was attached to Jim. Unhealthily so.

"I can't go." Sherlock said with finality. "I suggest you leave before Jim finds you."

John nodded once, biting his lower lip. There was no point in arguing. Sherlock needed to be convinced - given a reason to leave. Otherwise, he would die by James Moriarty's side. He would die, take a bullet for the sadistic, masochistic man. He didn't even comprehend why.

Sherlock huffed once John exited the room. He rested his head on his desk, hiding his face with his arms. Oh, he wanted to leave. He wanted to get as far away from that place as possible. He wanted to move thousands of miles away, change his name, change his identity. He needed to escape the black void that was James Moriarty. But he couldn't. Because Jim wasn't just some black void.

He was a black hole.

Sherlock didn't know much about outer space. He wanted to, but Jim told him not to waste his time, that it was useless information. But Sherlock did know that black holes suck everything around them. They have their own gravitational pull. They're infinite, the crush anything that comes near them, and they destroy without caring. They don't need to care because once the matter's gone, it's gone for good. A collapsed star is a black hole. Jim was once a star. Boy, was he ever the brightest star Sherlock's ever seen. Sherlock completely adored the man. But something happened. Jim - Sherlock's star - fell.

And here they are now. Criminals. Torturing people because they liked it. Because Jim liked it.

Sherlock didn't know much about outer space.

And now he didn't want to.


	9. Empathy

Chapter 9

Sherlock felt sick to his stomach.

The bedroom was a mess; bed sheets thrown onto the floor, numerous pillows scattered all over the room, papers were crumpled up, chairs were overturned, and the books were no longer on the shelf. Sherlock felt an oncoming headache, just envisioning Jim trashing the room after he left. Sherlock could feel Jim's anger suffocating him in the bedroom.

Jim was toxic. Sherlock knew that. But no matter what, he promised Jim that he wouldn't leave his side, that they were both in this together. If it weren't for Jim, Sherlock would be dead in the gutter somewhere. Jim knew where to hide, how to disguise themselves, how to fool everyone into thinking that they were someone else. Sherlock was only good with the facts, how to put them together, how to catch the bad guys.

Now, they're the bad guys. And Sherlock was lost.

Sherlock needed to see some light, something that gave him hope. He wanted the torturing of the prisoners to stop. He wanted the assassins to give up and leave them alone. He wanted everything to go back to normal. He wanted to go back to London and start all over. He wanted to buy a one bedroom flat where he could do nothing but play his violin for hours. He just wanted to feel safe again.

Sherlock used to love that feeling; the feeling of invincibility. The adrenaline coursing through his veins, making him high off his own brain chemicals. He loved watching the love of his life have fun, smile, laugh, even if it meant hurting other people. Sherlock used to loved Jim. Used to. Now he was just his partner in bed. They were no longer a team.

Sherlock was just starting to get that.

"Sherlock?" A voice called out to him. Sherlock sat upright on the bed, turning his head to the door. Jim was there, a small smile on his face. "Can I speak with you?"

"Yes, what's wrong?" Sherlock queried, feeling cautious.

Jim sauntered into the room, hands behind his back, his head slightly bowed. This is something he would do when he wanted something.

"I need to apologize."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

"For earlier." Jim said, slowly. He was now at the foot of their shared bed. His wide black eyes were pleading, but something about them always struck Sherlock as unnerving, like there was always a secondary emotion behind them.

"What about earlier?" Sherlock shook his head, playing dumb. Jim sighed.

"How I acted...it wasn't appropriate. It wasn't fair. I know that." Jim said, climbing onto the bed. He sat three feet away from Sherlock, cross-legged, his clasped in front of him.

"You're right." Sherlock agreed.

Jim half-smiled, nodding. "I know. I feel horrible about it. But I want to make it up to you."

The sick feeling in Sherlock's stomach intensified. Sherlock swallowed.

"How?" Sherlock questioned, frowning. He watched as Jim moved closer, reaching out to take Sherlock's hand into his.

"Let's get away." Jim proposed, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "I know how much you want to leave this place. I'm starting to feel a little confined here as well."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. This is what he wanted, he wanted to leave, he wanted to go somewhere far away. He just didn't expect Jim to follow along.

"Together?" Sherlock managed to mumble.

Jim nodded, a big smile shaping his lips. "How about it, Sherly?"

Sherlock looked down at their intertwined fingers, remembering how magical it used to feel whenever Jim used to touch him. Now it just felt like nothing, like touching a rock, or an instrument. It had no meaning to him. Jim's touches were just convenient, nothing more.

"What do you think?" Jim asked, sounding a lot more patient that Sherlock would have known to be possible.

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes, I guess."

Jim grinned, his facial expression softening into that of relief. Jim pulled Sherlock in for a tight hug, and he buried his face into Sherlock's neck, breathing in deeply.

"This will be good for us." Jim promised.

"Hopefully." Sherlock added.

Jim pulled away, a wild look in his eyes. "Oh, no, it will be, Sherlock. We'll go somewhere remote, off the coast of some place interesting."

"Where would we go, Jim?" Sherlock asked, sounding tired. "Where could we possibly go that the government won't track us from?"

Jim smirked. "Iceland."

"Iceland?" Sherlock repeated, unenthusiastic. "Why Iceland?"

"Because I've already bought a place there and that's where we'll go. We're leaving tonight. Pack lightly, Sherlock." Jim winked, getting off the bed. "Or not. You know how I like you."

With that, Jim left the bedroom, leaving Sherlock alone on the bed, confused.

* * *

"We have to change the gauze." John uttered. "It's still quite raw."

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath as John began to take the gauze off from his face.

"Sorry." John apologized, wincing as he watched Sherlock twitch. He threw the used gauze into the trash bin. "We're running out of bandages. The majority of the prisoners were wounded deeply, to the point where they all needed at least thirteen stitches."

"Do you need me to get, ah, some material for you?" Sherlock offered, cringing as John cleaned Sherlock's stitches.

John frowned. "There's no need for that. Won't be needing them anytime soon."

Sherlock mirrored John's frown. "Why?"

John went back to the table, cutting and shaping new gauze. He snorted, an unamused smirk on his face. "You're both leaving tonight, aren't you?"

Sherlock's stomach dropped, the sick feeling from earlier returning. Sherlock looked down, opening his mouth to say something, but there was nothing he could say to comfort the doctor.

"Don't feel bad about it, Mr. Holmes." John said.

"There was nothing I could have said or done to change Jim's mind otherwise." Sherlock blurted, looking up at the doctor.

"He's very, erm, persistent." John commented, placing the bandage of Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"What is going to happen to the prisoners? The guards?" John asked, hesitating to finish. "Me?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, dreading to answer. Jim will do what Jim likes to do after every other time they've moved. Jim doesn't like taking other people along. He would let them go.

Or kill them.

"We'll have to put them down." Sherlock explained, shying away. He stood up, pressing his hand against his bandaged cheek. John stared at him in shock, lips slightly parted, his eyes widening.

"No...after everything...?" John's voice was barely a whisper. Sherlock immediately felt guilty.

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock looked away, across the room and at the prisoners who were still chained up against the wall. "They're a danger."

"What about the guards?" John asked, stepping closer to Sherlock. "Where's your sympathy, Mr. Holmes? You can't kill them!"

"I'm not going to allow Jim to do such a thing." Sherlock replied quickly, firmly.

John stared at Sherlock for a few seconds, observing Sherlock's expression shift from seriousness to curiosity in a matter of moments.

"But you have before." John stressed each word.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"What's going to happen to me?" John asked. "I had to give up a lot to be here."

Sherlock felt his heart tug towards John. He empathized the man. He understood, fully, what it felt like to lose everything, having nothing left but what was in the present. Sherlock comprehended this, and he didn't want to cause such pain - or any more pain - to someone so innocent, so kind-hearted, so generous.

"Sebastian Moran will be accompanying us to our destination." Sherlock informed John. "Perhaps I could bribe Jim to bring you along as well."

"I just want to go home." John whispered, pressing his lips together.

Sherlock closed the space between them, and rested a hand on John's left shoulder. He looked into John's eyes, promising himself that he won't betray the promise he's about to make.

"I'll get you there."


	10. Persuasion

Chapter 10

Sherlock carried his suitcase to the front door, waiting for one of the guards to carry it onto the private helicopter. Jim had specifically asked for the arrival and departure of the helicopter to go unnoticed, which was a challenge, of course. But it had been done successfully. No one - not even the British government - had a clue that Jim was switching locations.

Sherlock had discussed with Jim about John accompanying them to Iceland. Jim was displeased, asking Sherlock all sorts of questions.

"Do you not trust me, Sherlock?"

"I did not-"

"We've had this conversation before, my dear. And we both know how that ended." Jim smirked, crossing his arms.

"James-"

"Jim."

"I trust you." Sherlock convinced. "You understand that I do. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. But you must also understand that John is incredibly intelligent. We cannot throw him out onto the curb."

Jim frowned, doubtful. "He's only been with us for a few weeks, Sherlock. Surely you understand that trust cannot be obtained in a matter of weeks." Jim tried to reason, frowning at his lover.

Sherlock looked down, feeling defeated. "He hasn't tried anything so far. Sebastian trusted him enough to recruit him."

Jim bit down on his lip, considering the idea. Sherlock wasn't wrong, and Sebastian was definitely deemed trustworthy years ago.

"Mr. Moriarty?" One of the guards interrupted his thoughts, standing at the threshold of the door. Jim looked up. "The helicopter is ready."

"You're dismissed." Jim muttered, waving him off. The guard nodded once, heading back towards the helicopter. Jim sighed, shaking his head, irritably, as he looked back up at Sherlock with a disappointed stare. "Get him. Tell him he has five minutes to pack."

Sherlock restrained himself from widening his eyes. Instead, he nodded once, pressed his lips into a tight, thin line and marched off. He walked as fast as he could to the dungeon. Fast enough so that he got there within fifteen seconds, but slow enough so that Jim wouldn't inquire later on about his eagerness.

Sherlock stepped into the dungeon, focusing on finding John. John knelt in front of one of the prisoners - the last one in the row - with his head bowed down. He was murmuring something unintelligeable. Sherlock deduced that he was apologizing, and muttering a silent prayer for them. Sherlock clasped his hands together behind his back, looking down at the floor until John acknowledged him.

"Mr. Holmes." The doctor greeted, standing up. "I heard the helicopter land. So I understand that this is," John noticeably hesitated. "farewell?"

"Actually," Sherlock began. "I've spoken to Jim. He permitted your company."

"Permitted." John repeated, mostly to himself. He cleared his throat. "Right. I had the slightest feeling that I would be leaving."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, in a questioning manner.

"You're persuasive." John admitted, grinning sheepishly. Sherlock half-smiled.

"You've got three minutes and forty-two seconds before Jim changes his mind." Sherlock informed him, turning for the stairs. "Shall I get a guard to escort you and your things outside?"

John darted his eyes towards the prisoners, whom continued to suffer. John knew they were going to die there in pain. They were going to die there without saying good bye to their loved ones, to their friends, to their home. They were going to die in a dimly lit underground dungeon, all because they were ordered to assassinate the two most dangerous men in all of Europe.

John didn't understand how one could manage to continue live under the orders of James Moriarty. John didn't understand why anyone would willingly go after James Moriarty, knowing that he has the power to destroy them with just a few words. John really didn't understand.

But he was ex-military. He could understand if one were to do it for their nation, which is what those prisoners voluntarily did. But the guards, Sebastian Moran, and Sherlock...they were still there. Perhaps they were there for the money? But even then, is it worth putting your life at risk all day every day for a man who couldn't care less?

John's thoughts shifted, until they focused on nothing but Sherlock. Sherlock was a genius, that much he knew. He was brilliant, captivating, but lost. Sherlock Holmes was a lost man. He was like a puppy. A stray that James Moriarty happened to come across, became fond of, then put a leash on. Sherlock was nothing but a follower, a convenience to James. John couldn't distinguish love or lust when it came to James Moriarty. No way could a man as evil as Moriarty could feel love. No man without a soul could feel what love his.

A man without a soul isn't a man at all.

* * *

Sherlock sat alone in the back of the helicopter. He gazed out the tiny, tinted window, waiting for the doctor to come out.

"If that doctor doesn't come out in sixty seconds, he's being left behind." Jim warned.

Sherlock's brows knitted together, his heart beginning to anxious as he rhythmically tapped his fingers on his knee, hoping that John hadn't changed his mind.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he saw the army doctor walk towards the helicopter, followed by a guard carrying a piece of his luggage. Once he arrived on the helicopter, he climbed inside and took a seat next to Sherlock. Jim sighed loudly. The guard stowed away John's luggage.

"Twenty more seconds and you would have been left behind." Jim remarked rudely. John nodded once, then looked down.

"All passengers are ready for take off." The pilot said. Someone responded, calling out numbers, names, and directions. "All right. We're taking off."

Once they were twenty feet off the ground, Sherlock looked below at the house they're abandoning as eighteen guards went inside with their weapons drawn.

"Fifteen more seconds. Then you kill them." Sherlock's ears perked as Jim murmured into the headset. Sherlock snuck a quick glance at John, watching as the doctor's face fell.

Ten seconds passed. Sherlock knew that they weren't far enough yet and that the helicopter's rotating blades weren't loud enough to muffle the sounds that were to follow. Sherlock kept staring at the doctor, observing the man's hands tremble. Sherlock deduced a while ago that John loved going to war; it gave his life meaning, it got his adrenaline pumping, it made him feel invincible in the most dangerous of ways. John did love war, without the war. He hated that war involved death, but that's essentially what war is. That's the goal.

It's the hatred towards humanity.

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock whispered, instinctively reaching out to touch John's hand.

John opened his mouth. Shots were fired, and the soldier cringed slightly, shaking his head. "It's fine."

Sherlock looked down, completely oblivious to the fact that Jim was glaring at them, glaring at their physical contact. Sherlock sighed, wishing there was something he could do to further comfort the doctor.

But there was no sense of comfort. Sherlock figured that out years ago.


	11. Facade

Chapter 11

Once they landed, all was silent.

They were on a large piece of land, covered in grass just like their last one. Except the house was much larger, with higher gates, and enforced security. There were guard towers on either side of the house. Jim took everything to the extreme - there was a reason why so many spies found their last location.

The house was massive; eight bedrooms, seven and a half bathrooms. There were two kitchens, two hot tubs, a sauna, and most importantly, another dungeon. Jim personally designed the dungeon. It looked a lot like a prison. Everything was metal, grey, and there was no possible way of natural light to come through. It smelt like water, metallic but somewhat fresh.

Sebastian and two new guards carried the luggage inside. Jim, Sherlock, and John stood in front of the metal gates while the pilot flew the helicopter further away from the entrance. Jim grinned like he knew exactly what would happen. Sherlock glanced over at John, whom didn't so much as blink. He stood still, rigid, resembling a statue.

When the metal gates opened and they took their few steps into their new 'home', Sherlock felt as though something was off. Surprisingly, he couldn't figure out what was off about it. The mansion gave off a strange aura of discomfort and uncertainty. Sherlock knew John felt it too because the army doctor was already frowning.

Stepping into the house was a whole new experience. It felt odd, like they didn't belong there. Jim definitely belonged there, though. The mansion represented the cynical man in so many ways. It was empty, cold, hallow. It didn't feel anything like a home should. It was like a warehouse. Jim sighed happily, staring up at the grande staircase.

"Our bedroom is up there." Jim said matter-of-factly. "Sebastian! Show John his room."

"Yes, sir." Sebastian nodded.

Sebastian and John walked off to the west part of the house. Sherlock figured Jim purposely put the doctor's room far away, so that he would have less of a chance seeing him. Jim took Sherlock's hand in his, squeezing it lightly. He gave Sherlock a small smile, as if that were supposed to give him some strange sense of reassurance. If anything, it made Sherlock feel sick.

"Come on, then." Jim murmured, leading Sherlock up the staircase.

Upon entering the bedroom, Sherlock's impression was that it all seemed very dark and heavy. The north end of the room did not have an opaque wall; it was a glass window with a sliding door that led out to their own personal balcony. It overlooked the small lake they had at the back of the house. The curtains were a dark red, almost maroon colour. The floor was cherry hardwood. Their bed was king sized, of course, with black bed sheets, pillow cases, and duvet. It all seemed very...gothic.

It mimicked their old bedroom at their previous house. The only major thing that changed was the size of the room - it was significantly bigger. With no added objects, carpet, or chairs, everything in the room echoed; voiced, footsteps, movement of any kind. Sherlock knew that Jim decorated the room like that on purpose. Jim could hear everything. With him being a light sleeper, he'd know immediately if someone was sneaking into their bedroom or sneaking out. Jim was paranoid. He had every right to be.

"I'm going to check in on John." Sherlock said, backing out of the room, adding, "If that's all right with you."

Jim spun around, a tight smile formed his lips. "Of course." His response was reluctant. Sherlock didn't bother saying anything else.

Sherlock already had a map of the mansion imprinted on his mind. The placement of the rooms were predictable. Sherlock knew Jim's mind inside out. If Jim had anything to do with the layout of the house, which Sherlock was positive he did, it wouldn't be hard for him to figure out where Jim would want everything. Everything had to be convenient to Jim. Everything was well thought out. Sherlock could see that.

Within thirty seconds, Sherlock found John's bedroom. It was in the completely opposite direction of their bedroom. The door was closed, but Sherlock could hear the faintest of mumbling happening behind the door. He knocked.

The door opened, Sebastian was the one to open it.

"Mr. Holmes, " Sebastian nodded, opening the door a little wider to let Sherlock inside. Sherlock entered the room, noticing John sitting on his bed. Sebastian closed the door.

Sherlock sensed something was wrong. "What's going on?"

John and Sebastian exchanged glances, mutually agreeing on something. John clasped his hands together, pursing his lips as he stared blankly at the ground. Sebastian stood in front of the door, guarding it.

"Sebastian and I have come to an understanding." John began.

Sherlock frowned. "On what?"

"We must escape." John replied almost instantly.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the ex-sniper. The ex-military man put on a good facade. Sherlock had thought that the man was completely and utterly loyal to Jim, especially after all those years of running and taking bullets for him. Sherlock hadn't really been paying attention.

"Well." Sherlock said flatly.

Sebastian stared at Sherlock. "The lunatic had it coming. I'm not taking anymore bullets for that bastard."

John stood up, walking over to his suitcase which was set down on a table. He unzipped the front pocket, revealing a Glock pistol. Sherlock frowned.

"Semi-automatic." John muttered. "One of the guards told me to take it before I left, said it could come in handy."

Sherlock didn't say anything. The whole crew seemed to be in on it. Jim was in the dark.

"Should be good enough to get away in time."

Sherlock's heart thudded in his chest. It all seemed too sudden, disorganized, but it had him on edge in an indescribable way. Some would call it adrenaline. Sherlock would say it felt like hope.

John loaded the gun, but kept the safety on.

"We're doing this now?" Sherlock inquired. John shot him a confused look.

"I'm assuming you already know every entrance and exit of this house. I'm sure you know what we need to avoid." John uttered, taking out a small duffel bag from inside his suitcase. Sherlock nodded in  
response. "Good. Shouldn't be a problem then."

Sherlock stood there, wide-eyed and frozen. There was a big possibility that they would escape. There were many guards, but they wouldn't be on the look out for three supposedly trustworthy people escaping the mansion. Even Sherlock had to admit that Sebastian put up a good show. Actually, it was brilliant. Sebastian and John had all the necessary military training to get in and out of places discreetly. They had training in combat, and with weapons. Sherlock knew Jim, knew how he would react to things, somewhat understood his thought process, knew how to get out of the new mansion. All they needed was someone brave, someone with drive.

They needed John.

"It's the perfect time to escape, Sherlock." John said his name for the first time. "We just arrived, he wouldn't be expecting anyone of us to leave so soon. Especially not you. You know how he is." John held out the gun to Sherlock. Sherlock stared at it. "Go on, take it. I already have one." John patted his hip, which Sherlock failed to have observed that he was hiding a weapon there. "You know how to shoot, right?"

That seemed to shake Sherlock out of his trance. "Yes, of course." Sherlock took the gun, tucking it in his coat.

John nodded once. "Good. Sebastian?"

"Ready." Sebastian confirmed.

John half-smiled. "Let's go."


	12. Lethal

Chapter 12

"Not that way!" Sherlock whispered harshly, pulling Sebastian back by his forearm. "Two guards are pacing the hall. Look at the shadow." He pointed at the two figured shaped shadows cast on the wall. They moved, overlapping each other. Sebastian breathed out sharply, closing his eyes, back pressed against the wall. "On my go, run down that hallway." Sherlock pointed to the opposing hallway. "It's dark. No one is guarding that side yet. There should be a door on your right; it will lead to a balcony."

Sherlock looked at John. "Follow me."

John nodded.

Two brief moments later, Sherlock ordered Sebastian to go. He did, stealthily, and he managed not to get caught. "Alright, go." Sherlock said, gripping John's arm as he made his way to Sebastian.

He halted when he saw Sebastian kneeling, gun on the ground, hands up behind his head. Jim had a gun pointed to the back of his head, a cynical grin on his face. He glanced up at John and Sherlock, eyes darting to Sherlock's hold on John's arm, expression changing.

"Oh, Sherlock." Jim sighed, mockingly sad. "You've disappointed me."

* * *

"Please," Sherlock begged, blue eyes full of tears. He looked up at Jim pleadingly, kneeling before him. He was naked, fingers gripping at Jim's suit desperately. "please don't."

Jim's fixed gaze bored into Sherlock's eyes. "Politeness is a feeble form of self defense."

A heavy hand came down across Sherlock's face, emitting a cry from him. He didn't move his head, kept it to the side. The sting from the slap stimulated his face in an uncomfortable way. It felt like a thousand tiny, microscopic needles were probing his cheek. Jim grabbed his face, a grip so tight that it was definitely going to leave finger shaped bruises on Sherlock's face.

"I loved you." Jim spat through his teeth, his rage could be felt. "I took care of you. I kept you safe. I kept your dirty little secrets to myself." Jim moved closer, leaning down to Sherlock's face. "And you betray me. All for what?" He laughed, humorlessly. He released the grip he had on Sherlock's face and began combing his fingers through Sherlock's hair, lightly tugging on it, making Sherlock wince. He was waiting for the pain. "For nothing." He let go of Sherlock's hair, forcefully shoving him to the ground. "I _loved _you."

"Don't hurt him." Sherlock begged, breathing heavily. "Don't, don't hurt him."

"John Watson?" Jim asked, a dark edge to his tone. "Of course not."

"Don't," Sherlock kept pleading. "James..."

"I won't hurt him, Sherlock." Jim said. "I'll break him."

"You can't, please, he-he didn't..."

Jim grabbed Sherlock's neck with his left hand, squeezing. "Is he forcing you to say these things?" Jim asked. "Is he threatening you? Does he know something that I don't? Tell me, Sherlock. Make me understand." Jim took a step back. "Did you fuck him?"

Sherlock made a strangled noise, curling in on himself.

"Doesn't matter." Jim snorted, loosening his hold. "When I'm done with him, you won't be able to have him anymore."

"Don't hurt him." Sherlock gasped. "Please, James. James. I-I promise you, you-you..." Sherlock swallowed thickly, mouth dry, face wet. "Do whatever you want with me. Just-just don't touch him."

Jim stopped and stared at Sherlock thoughtfully for a few seconds. "I admire your bravery." He said. "But words don't do anything for me, Sherlock. I'm more of a," Jim leaned in again, expression dark and taunting. "hands-on type of guy."

And for a moment, Sherlock swore he saw a hint of guilt in Jim's eyes. Blinking a few times, he realized his expression was just as blank as it was before. His expression was unreadable, and it terrified him. He knew Jim. He was his partner for years. In fact, no one knew Jim as well as Sherlock did. And right now, kneeling before him, begging for his own life, he can see a man. A stranger. A man he used to love, a man he used to was to admire, who he wanted to impress. Now he felt nothing.

The connection they had had broken. Just two frayed ends of rope that used to be one.

"I really wished I didn't have to do this." Jim said, shaking his head. "You know how much I hate to get my hands dirty."

Sherlock, still slumped on the ground, lifted his head. "He did_nothing _wrong."

Jim held his hands behind his back, cocking his head to the side. He stared Sherlock down condescendingly. "Is that so?"

"I forced him, them." Sherlock muttered. "Th-they didn't do it out of their own free will."

Jim blinked, gritting his teeth. He looked away. "A crime's a crime, Sherlock." He walked out of the room, leaving Sherlock bloody, beaten on the floor.

Scratches decorated Sherlock's pale skin, soon to be joined by the irregular shapes of black and purple bruises. Nothing was broken, nothing was severely injured. But it was painful to move. Jim's hands were lethal weapons. He knew how to sprain, how to almost fracture a bone. He knew the weak spots of the human body, where to attack and how to attack it.

Sherlock remembered Jim's hands being soft, gentle, caressing. They only ever touched him endearingly, unless he did something that Jim didn't like. It was then when he realized that he was no longer protected. He needed to leave, needed to get Sebastian and John out of there, needed to find someplace safe to escape to.

But Sherlock's leg muscles were pulled. He'd need assistance just to stand up. And in another room not too far off, he knew that's where Sebastian and John were being held.

For the first time in a long time, as ridiculous and logically unlikely as it may seem, Sherlock prayed to God for a miracle.


	13. No Goodbye

Chapter 13

A horrifying, gut-wrenching scream bounced off the walls and struck Sherlock's heart. John's screams. Sherlock laid down on the floor, helpless, listening to an innocent man be wrongfully harmed in the next room. He wanted to hide in the fairy tale world that was his imagination, escape just for a day. It would be better that way; pretend that he didn't exist, that Jim didn't exist, that John and Sebastian weren't about to be murdered less than twenty feet away. If he could just close his eyes, shut his brain off from the world, and fall into a permanent deep sleep, that would be a miracle.

But that was impossible. Physically. Jim had Sherlock strapped to the chair, one that they used to use for role playing until Jim decided it was too boring to use, but not useless enough to throw away. He knew it would come in handy, and now it has. Sherlock was immobile, sitting upright. His eyes were pried open with fish hooks that pulled at his eyelids. His eyes were too dry, painful. Blood was getting in them, but was washed away when they started to tear up, offering temporary relief, yet it wasn't enough. His eyes were so dry that he could barely see out of them.

He couldn't even emit a sound. Jim had shoved a rubber ball inside his mouth, then proceeded to duct tape his lips together, binding them for an indefinite amount of time. Sherlock could only whimper, and even then it sounded cruel.

"Oh, will you shut up?" Jim came stomping in the room he held Sherlock in. "Seriously, you're messing with my vibe."

Sherlock looked away, avoiding eye contact.

"Hey," Jim slapped his cheek, hard enough to get his attention. "Look at me when I'm talking to you - shut up, all right? I don't like hurting you."

Sherlock wanted to laugh. Yeah, right.

Jim danced around the dimly lit room, a smirk-like smile on his face. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but it's the truth. You were the only one I've ever truly loved. And it's hard for me to love people."

He said it with a tone of disgust.

"But believe me when I say that I did love you," he stopped in front of Sherlock. "That was until you betrayed me."

Sherlock tried whining. Jim kicked at his feet.

"Shut up," he turned around, hands behind his back. "Just shut up. You could never keep your stupid mouth shut, now could you? Always blabbing, blabbing, blabbing." Jim mocked him, using his hand as a mouth puppet. "Just _once_, Sherlock, let _me _have the spotlight."

Sherlock felt tired. This is all a game to Jim, and Sherlock's just another one of his players.

"I like to think of this as chess," Jim said. He said that before. "But I'm not the King, I'm the Queen. Want to know why? Because the Queen can move. She can move wherever she likes. She's the most important player. And the King? He needs the Queen to protect him. Not all the time, but the Queen has the ability to take down every other player. The Queen, my dear Sherlock, is the most valued piece, forget the King."

He smiled, as if what he just said was genius.

"The King is nothing without his Queen," Jim stopped in front of Sherlock, leaning down to kiss Sherlock's forehead. "I don't need you."

He laughed. Sherlock shivered, the tears in his eyes finally pooling over, mixed in with some of the blood trickling from his eyelids. With any slight movement, it would tear his eyelids in half, or off.

Sherlock had loved him. He did. Jim was a remarkable manipulator, and Sherlock knew it. Sherlock knew all about him before he could even introduce himself. But Sherlock didn't care, because for once, he didn't feel like an outcast. He had found someone who was almost like him, who understood him, someone who acknowledged his intelligence and wanted him for it.

He didn't care if someone wanted to use him. He just wanted to feel wanted.

"I never needed you," Jim sung, sauntering out of the room. A loud slash could be heard. It sounded wet, explosive. Sherlock cringed, the hooks tugging at his eyelids made him stop.

Panting. Someone was panting. Someone was in close enough proximity for him to hear their breathing. He hummed.

"Mr. Holmes?" More panting. "Sherlock?" Sebastian stumbled into the room, grabbing onto Sherlock's arm. "I'm going to get us outta here."

* * *

"John? Where's John?" Sherlock was frantic, looking over his shoulder.

Sebastian dragged the slender, lanky man behind him, ignoring the numerous punches and slaps he was inflicting upon him. Sherlock's vision was blurry, completely useless to him. He could only see the blurry blobs of guards running past them, patting Sebastian on the back, or following them.

It wasn't long before they were outside, a chopper waiting for them out on the open field.

"I do not under-"

"We're not the only ones who want out of this place," Sebastian cut him off. Without warning, he picked Sherlock up and set him inside the helicopter.

"John-"

"Don't worry about the Captain," Sebastian climbed in, looking back at the mansion they'd abandoned. "He'll be fine."

"Jim-"

"Dead."

Sherlock's lips parted, wanting to proclaim his relief, but only gasped. His heart caught in his throat as though it wanted to leave his body. He could feel his blood coursing through his veins, rushing to his head. James Moriarty was dead. He can't hurt him anymore. He can't hurt anybody anymore. The Officials can't hunt both of them down anymore, only Sherlock. That was one less loose end finally tied up. He didn't have to worry about pleasing James.

He didn't have to worry about his own safety anymore. He was done. He was finally done.

"Hard to believe, eh?" Sebastian chortled, seeming completely unfazed by the death. "Well, that's one pain in the ass I don't have to deal with anymore. The second's you."

"Machete, where did you obtain a machete?" Sherlock inquired, studiously. That was the weapon used to kill Jim.

Sebastian stared at him for a long time, bemused. "I always forget that you're some creepy genius."

Sherlock glanced at the mansion, noting that the West side was completely abandoned. He tried to see a sign, something, anything that could tell him that John was still alive. He needed to know that he didn't just leave an innocent alive. This immediately brought his attention back to the prisoners and how ruthless and instant their deaths were.

It was all too fucked up.

"Sliced his neck open," a triumphant smile plastered the ex-soldier's face. He wore it like a Medal of Honor.

"Carotid artery," Sherlock nodded, looking at the blood stains on his shirt.

"Slow, painful death," Sebastian described, rubbing his hands together. "Let the motherfucker think about what he's done before he dies." Two more guards hopped onto the helicopter, sliding into empty seats.

Surreal. It didn't feel real at all. One minutes, Jim was in the room. The next, he was dead. Sherlock expected Jim's life to be taken away by his own hands. He was destructive, dangerous enough to kill himself. If it wasn't his actions that killed him, then it was himself. Never would it have crossed Sherlock's mind, surprisingly, that it would be at the hands of one of Jim's best guards.

"Hated that bastard," Sebastian shook his head, nonchalantly. "Start the chopper! The Officials will hear about this in a few hours. Take us to the nearest safe house!"

The helicopter was already off the ground by the time Sherlock realized they were leaving John behind. His heart leaped, then started thudding rapidly.

"We're just leaving him there?"

Sebastian didn't need clarification. "He'll be fine. The real threat is dead."

A dreaded longing feeling shadowed Sherlock. He sat on the helicopter's floor, rigid, paralyzed. He hadn't had the chance to even talk to him without the fear of Jim eavesdropping or spying. John was one of the few people who weren't compete idiots. Sherlock felt like something was taken away from him, as if it were some sort of punishment for everything that he and Jim had done.

It hurt. His heart felt like it was being poked and prodded with hundreds of microscopic needles. He could hardly breathe through the lump that had formed in his throat. How was it fair? Sherlock was never given a choice. He didn't know who James was, not until he was in too deep. Hurting people was never planned. It was forced upon him. "'It's his death, or yours, Sherlock,'" Jim would tease. Tears prickled his eyes, and he had to turn away.

He was never going to see John Watson again.


	14. Letter

Chapter 14

It'd been seven months since the great escape.

Sebastian had forced Sherlock to take on a new identity before the British government tracked him down. Someone had tipped them off that James Moriarty was dead, who also happened to be one of the nation's most wanted criminals of at the time. They stripped the mansion clean, discovering that Jim was only settling in, and hadn't really gotten to unpacking anything worth documenting. Somewhere in the midst of their discoveries, they realized that Sherlock Holmes was still loose. When the continent found out, the European news became obsessed with who them. They were even named 'The Deadly Duo'.

The Officials recollected the deceased bodies of the prisoners they held captive. There was a memorial for all of them somewhere in London. This gave The Deadly Duo even more unwanted recognition. After the nation found out that James Moriarty was dead, Sherlock was bumped from being the second most wanted in the country to the first.

Sherlock was untraceable as far as anyone knew. Sebastian had made sure of it. The Officials couldn't even track down any of Jim's associates. And as for the guards, they fled almost immediately after finding out that their boss was dead. He was no longer a threat to them. The Officials were none the wiser.

Sherlock moved to the south of Iceland. No one knew who he was, and better yet, no one really cared. The small little rancher that he currently lived in was good enough. Every so often, Sebastian would pay a visit. Considering Jim didn't allow Sherlock to have much of a social life, Sherlock had trouble making friends. Sebastian's company was welcomed.

And although it had been seven months, Sherlock thought about John every day.

He'd only known the man for a small while, but he made a huge impact on Sherlock's life. He was one of a kind; one of very few to genuinely care about Sherlock's well-being. Despite what John was hired for, he still had Sherlock's best interests in mind. The man was compassionate, and surprisingly easy to talk to.

Sherlock would be lying if he said he didn't miss him.

A few weeks ago, he received a letter from him. Sherlock's heart leaped when he read who it was from:

_Sherlock,_

_I am alive and well. It's been a while, but you are not exactly the easiest person to track down. Sebastian Moran's a very good friend of mine, but he is also very secretive. I knew he had you in hiding._

_I've heard very little of you from Sebastian. He says you are well, which is all I could hope for. Other than, nothing. I know you and I don't know each other well enough yet, still, I worry about you..._

_I am writing this letter to ask if it is alright that I visit you. I am not sure when. and I don't know if I will be able to stay long, but I'd like to speak with you, in person, with your permission, of course._

_You're a remarkable human being, and I am very saddened that we weren't able to progress with out friendship due to the circumstances. So I ask of you, please, Sherlock, that you accept my request and take it into consideration._

_If you need to contact me personally, let Sebastian know._

_John H. Watson_

Sherlock had kept the note on his bedside table, neatly folded, and enclosed in the envelope. He'd thought about it a lot. He wanted to agree, but his nerves got the best of him.

"It's just John Watson," Sebastian had stated. "He saved our lives. You owe it to him."

Sherlock knew he did, too. If it weren't for John's compassion and perseverance, Jim would still be alive, and Sherlock would still be his prisoner.

"Tell him next week," Sherlock felt his throat tighten. "If he wants to, that is."

"He does," Sebastian said confidently. "He nearly threw the letter at me when I didn't take it."

Sherlock smiled a small smile, looking down. It was an odd sensation, feeling missed. But it was new, and it was comforting.

"He'll be glad to hear," Sebastian nodded, heading toward the door. "I'll call back later."

"Sebastian?" Sherlock stopped him, quizzically staring at the ex-soldier. "Why me?"

"What are you on about?" Sebastian turned, folding his arms across his chest.

"Protection, kindness...it is not exactly what I deserve after everything I've done," Sherlock frowned, curious. Why would Sebastian even consider protecting a man who took part in the same kind of darkness that Jim participated in? Why give him the benefit of the doubt?

"I saw the way he treated you," Sebastian answered without hesitation. "You were more of a pet to him than a partner."

Sherlock didn't look away. Instead, he frowned even harder.

"To be completely honest with you, mate, I really thought you were like Moriarty," Sebastian admitted. "Especially since you were in a relationship. I expected you to be like him, if not, a different version. But alone, you were a completely different person. You were considerate. It's not your fault that he had you on a leash."

Sherlock nodded, looking away. "Surely that is not enough evidence to deem myself worthy of living."

Sebastian smirked. "I killed people, too, you know," he chortled. "Ex-military? I was under orders. So were you."

Sherlock nodded, again. He understood. He didn't know what to make of such generosity. Sebastian went through so much trouble to protect him, finding him a place to stay, a place to live, and even allowing him to contact John. It didn't make sense, either. Why didn't Sebastian just up and abandon him when he was already safe? Why did he keep in contact?

Sherlock deduced it might have something to do with maintaining a friendship - something he wasn't used to.

"Anyway, I must head back," Sebastian turned for the door. "I'll pass on your message."

Sherlock watched the man leave, feeling eternally grateful, and inexplicably nervous.


End file.
